


What is Love, if Not Duty?

by Dreams2Paper11



Category: Alien Series, Alien: Covenant
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Walter is a woobie, he deserved so much better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:05:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreams2Paper11/pseuds/Dreams2Paper11
Summary: A series of drabbles telling how Walter fell in love with Daniels.In the same universe as "Lion and the Lamb".





	What is Love, if Not Duty?

**Author's Note:**

> I was working on the next chapter for "Lion and the Lamb", but I felt like I couldn't get a proper grasp of Walter in my head, and I couldn't write how Daniels felt about him if I didn't know how Walter felt about her.  
> Thus, this was born.  
> This was a one-shot, but it fits in the same universe as "Lion and the Lamb".  
> un-beta'd.

When Walter first met her, he thought there was something wrong with him.

“Leah, this is Walter, our resident android. Walter, this is Leah Daniels, my lovely lady and the _Covenant’s_ chief terraformist.”

Captain Branson was a charismatic man—handsome in a roguish way with a perpetual grin. Walter was—not _happy_ , per se, but satisfied that this man was at the helm of the mission. He was capable.

The woman at his side—his wife—smiled pleasantly and extended her hand. How odd. No one had ever shaken his hand before, aside from the scientists checking his reflexes and movement fluidity. He took it and shook it up and down twice, exerting an amount of pressure in the acceptable range. Humans placed a surprising amount of emphasis on handshakes. Not too limp, or you appeared weak. Not too strong, or you seemed domineering.

Her skin was marvelously soft and warm. Something lurched in Walter’s chest, and he touched his left pectoral in surprise. It had not been pain—or what Walter understood to be pain—but it hadn’t felt normal, either. He began an internal diagnostic.

“Nice to meet you, Walter. You can call me Daniels, I hate my first name,” she said, still smiling. She had a strange face—full of round curves that seemed odd under the ship’s fluorescence but were probably just the right lighting away from extraordinary.

The diagnostic came back with a clean bill of health. Walter passed off the incident as a fluke. If there was an issue, his self-repair function would fix it.

* * *

 

The ship’s takeoff went smoothly.

The crew was strapped in securely for the duration of the exit from Earth’s atmosphere. Walter watched the ground fall away from them outside the viewing port and felt no particular pang of homesickness.

Daniels was pale, her eyes wide. The ship shuddered ominously around them. Walter felt no fear. He knew the exact capabilities of the ship’s infrastructure. It had been designed to weather heavy ion storms. Turbulence, though showy, was no real threat. He wondered if Daniels knew that. If he should tell her. Maybe it would provide comfort.

Captain Branson had maneuvered his arm around their restraints so that he could hold her hand. Their rings glinted on their fingers. Walter observed as the captain stroked his finger across the back of her hand—back and forth, back and forth. It would be a pleasurable tactile sensation, Walter knew from experience. Her hands were soft, good for holding.

His chest did that funny lurch again. Strapped in as he was, he could not rub the feeling away.

* * *

 

Two weeks into the mission, and the crew had just bedded themselves down for the first hypersleep segment of the journey. Walter hovered in the middle of the room, sensing the silence keenly. It seemed—unusual, to not be surrounded by the good-natured bustle of the crew as they went about their duties.

Mother pinged gently, informing him of his new list of tasks. He would do the same routine, day in and day out, for the next 387 days, while the crew slept. It would be best to get started now and familiarize himself with the schedule.

He began his walk to the chamber’s exit, but found himself taking the long way around so that he passed by Daniels’ pod. It was as though he could not stop himself. He slowed as he neared it, and then finally stopped under the pretense that he was checking her vitals.

It was as he had hypothesized. Under the pod’s gentle illumination, she seemed—ethereal, maybe. Statuesque. In a purely objective way, he began comparing the features of her face. Which would appeal to the average viewer the most?

Well, her skin was very smooth. Her nose was straight and in pleasing proportion to the rest of her face. Her jawline was also very sharp. Walter wondered passively if it would press cuttingly into the synth-flesh of his hand, or if his palm would mold around it, yielding to her warmth.

Maybe Captain Branson held her like that.

He chided himself instantly for the thoughts; they were dangerously near inappropriate. Not thoughts he should be having about a superior, let alone a human.

When her eyes were open, they seemed almost mournful—this was, of course, due to their deep-set and hooded nature. Walter was—intrigued by that. He worried that maybe sometimes she was in pain. He often devoted quite a bit of attention to tracking her expressions and body language, ensuring that all was well.

But in sleep, she seemed—well, she was asleep. Safely. It was optimal.

Mother pinged, more insistently this time. Walter withdrew his hand quickly—he hadn’t intended to touch the reinforced glass over her pod, and he was shocked by his lapse in attention.

He went about his duties.

* * *

 

Ensuring the safety and wellbeing of the crewmembers was a subdirective of Walter’s, second only to the wellbeing of the ship and its hundreds of passengers. And so he did not enjoy waking them from cryosleep for the first checkpoint of the journey, because it inevitably made them sick, and the sight inspired something like agony in him.

He could not bear to look at Daniels especially as she retched. His chest hurt at the sound. He did not bother to perform a diagnostic—he had come to accept that pain was simply a part of his duty towards her.

Mute with the way his internal workings felt locked up, he offered her a blanket. She grabbed it gratefully and wrapped herself up. Her husband was also similarly enshrouded, holding his vomit-bucket and looking cheerful despite the pallor to his skin.

“Hey Leah, you good?”

“Call me Leah again and I’ll punch you so hard in the nuts, Jake,” she rasped. She made a weak fist and waved it threateningly.

She was so small and slight. Her threat was like the hiss of a kitten. Walter turned away so that she wouldn’t see his smile.

Branson laughed. “Yeah, you’re good,” he managed, before he lowered his head and began another round of nausea.

Daniels was smiling too. Walter took a snapshot and added it to his memory space.

For the ship’s log, of course.

* * *

 

Captain Branson was dead.

Walter knew, logically, that it wasn’t his fault—no one could have predicted the ion storm’s path. Even so; he felt that throbbing in his chest every time he saw Daniels’ puffy, tear-swollen face.

He should find her a box of tissues. Perhaps a blanket; she looked very cold.

Oram made his speech to the crew, and Walter listened, wondering if he could interject on Daniels’ behalf. Some rest would do her good. He would make tea. There were many boxes of tea in the ship’s kitchens. He would avoid the caffeinated ones, as they would only exacerbate her stress. Chamomile, perhaps. In the mug she liked, the one with the notch-eared cartoon dog on its side. He would put an ice cube in it so that it wouldn’t burn her lips.

They went to the terraforming bay together. Walter remained silent, unsure of what he could say. Her grief followed her like a cloud, and he was—concerned about worsening it. Humans were very odd about grief. Some of them got angry and lashed out, some of them turned inwards and became consumed with malaise.

It was too early to tell which way Daniels would fall. He would do his best to ensure she moved through the grieving process as comfortably as possible.

It was very quiet in the terraforming bay; just the distant clanging of the ship’s innards. Walter felt very raw as Daniels went about her duties, tears slowly dripping down her cheeks. The urge to wipe them away nearly consumed him and his hand twitched at his side before his social protocols kicked in. She would most likely not appreciate the gesture. It was too—intimate, especially coming from a synthetic.

Then, words gushed from her like blood from a wound. He listened. The internet had said that listening was a very valuable skill, so Walter had been practicing it while the crew slept.

A cabin by the lake. The idea of it was very beautiful. Walter browsed through his memories of the floor plans stored in the ship’s database. He could not imagine it, but he could choose an existing floor plan and pretend it was close.

She was so slight. She would need help building it. Walter knew he was to be decommissioned once they arrived, but maybe—maybe Daniels would ask for his help. He would say yes, of course. No hesitation.

It was his duty, after all.

* * *

 

“Daniels, move!” he shouted. It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at her—he hoped she wouldn’t think he was angry at her. His chest throbbed with pain at the mere thought.

She spun around, but too late—the creature was leaping, now, it would hurt her, it would _kill_ her—

—he threw himself in front, formed a fist, and punched. His arm went straight down its open maw. He clawed as best as he could… maybe he could rip its throat out from the inside…

The creature shrieked in pain, flailing wildly. Something was happening to his arm and his self-repair systems began raising alarms on his HUD. He staggered backwards as the alien tore itself free. His entire hand was gone, up to the wrist. The metal bones were steaming at the edge.

But Daniels was unharmed.

He held his damaged arm away from her, ashamed that she would see the inner machinery of his limb. She stared at him with her doe eyes, horrified at the damage.

He would assuage her fears later, when they were not so vulnerable. It did not hurt.

Not as much as the pain in his chest at the thought of her death.

* * *

 

“You love her,” David said fondly, patient like a father explaining something particularly difficult to a particularly dense child. “Why else would you sacrifice your hand?”

“No,” Walter disagreed softly. It was such a baffling accusation. Walter was a synthetic—statements of grandiose things like _love_ were strictly for humans. He could not even fathom feeling such a thing. It was an utterly alien concept.

“Then what do you feel?”

That was a difficult one to answer, as well. Walter—felt _something_ for Daniels, yes, but as he did not know love, he could not ascribe it to the emotion with any measure of certainty.

What _was_ Daniels to him?

She was worth more than his hand. She was worth the nights without recharge as he watched over her vitals in cryosleep. She was worth all of him, more than him. She was the pain in his chest when her face twisted with unhappiness.

Walter did not think he knew love, but he did know duty.

“Duty,” he said decisively, and David’s face twitched as though in disagreement.

* * *

 

David was sprawled overtop of Daniels, his lips pressed to hers in a facsimile of a kiss, and Walter felt such an upwelling of anger in his chest that he could barely stand it.

David was a _bug_ , David was a _blight_ , David had _dared_ to lay hands upon her, to draw tears from those mournful eyes, and Walter—

Walter wanted nothing more than to part his head from his shoulders for the unholy transgression.

* * *

 

He knew, then.

* * *

 

Humans pledged their duties to one another when they married. “In love and sickness” and “to protect and honor”. Walter had watched countless recordings of such ceremonies, intrigued by their vows.

Marriage was a pledge of duty. Therefore, since marriage was supposedly the ultimate institution of love, love could be considered duty.

If that was the case, then—

—then Walter was indeed madly, glitchingly, _terribly_ in love with Daniels.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I kind of dislike it when Daniels is immediately shoved into a relationship with Walter; for heaven's sake, she just lost her husband, who was kind of an awesome guy judging by the glimpses we get of his character. RIP Captain Jake Branson, I salute you.  
> I live for the pre-relationship stage feels.


End file.
